Weird Nights: Night 1.75

Trumpet liked being wet. The rain was magical to him, one of the only aspects that wasn't controlled by whoever put them here. Trumpet sat outside in his yard, savoring the selcouth rain. He knew his sister would make him come inside, because she had to clean the house and Trumpet had a nasty habit of dripping everywhere.

While he was thinking, Trumpet thought of earlier. He kept doing that to people. He got them all riled up, ready to fight, calmed them down, then made them mad. Trumpet would always laugh after that. He was a jerk, and he knew it. His favorite person to make mad was Frenchie Highbrass. Frenchie got really mad, really fast.

But Frenchie was a poor fighter, to Trumpet, at least. Frenchie's sister fought better than he did. Trumpet knew, because he liked to aggravate them. Trumpette was calling him, Trumpet heard vaguely. He sighed.
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The doctor sneezed again. The test subjects were unaware of his existence. But he knew them. The doctor had followed this particular test group, 3R1N, since their infancy. He studied their dynamics more than their immunity. He knew that immunity was genetic, and their was nothing Europe could do to save those who weren't immune. But they hadn't pulled the plug on the operation. This was the only thing feeding their families, caring for their children. So the doctor stayed.

The rain had angered the creators of the experiment, but the doctor didn't care. He sneezed again. Subject 3R-Holly and Subject 3R-Andrew were falling in love, he knew. He knew that Subject 3R-Ethan would try to hurt Subject 3R-Andrew for loving what the serum made his sister. The doctor also knew that Subject 3R-Johnathan was fighting his serum. But he didn't care. The doctor sneezed again. It unsettled him deeply on the inside. It wouldn't be long now.

The doctor knew one more thing that he wished he could change. Subject 3R-Justin was planning to kill Subject 3R-Holly, and the doctor couldn't stop it. He sneezed again.
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Bass knocked on French's door. As usual, Frenchie answered. "Oh, hi Bass. What's up?" Bass couldn't help being disappointed. He recovered himself quickly and coughed, his change of expression masked. "I was wondering if you and French wanted to come to the whole Town Feast that shows up in the park every week. I don't think French has been feeling well lately. Is she better?" Bass talked too much, or so he thought.

A shadow crossed Frenchie's face. "No, she isn't feeling any better. I think Trumpet gave her germs or something." Frenchie tensed a fist. Bass didn't think Frenchie knew it. "Knock his lights out for me, would ya?" Frenchie smiled. His fist relaxed. "No, but I'll talk to him. He's a jerk." Bass forced a smile. He was disappointed that French was 'sick', but he was hurt because he knew she was faking because of him. "Thanks. Punch him for me." Frenchie laughed. Revenge was his thing. Bass preferred to talk it out.

"I'll work something out." Bass nodded. "See you later, Frenchie." "Bye, Bass." Frenchie smiled and shut the door as Bass turned and walked down the path and back to the sidewalk. Bass sighed and walked down the street. Maybe he would stop at the corner store and pick up some of Sonia and his rations. He didn't know.

Bass put away the rations and glanced at the clock. 4:30. He sighed and grabbed a jacket off a coat hook. The zipper whacked his little finger and Bass said a most unpleasant word. Well, no one can be an angel all the time.
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Nate Soakreed lounged in the grass, cherishing the warm sunlight entrapping his body. He was full, having eaten the hot dogs that magically appeared in the park every week on Thursday at 4:59 exact. The sun was still quite lofty in the sky, although the clouds were urging it down, and the sun was losing the fight. Nate sat for a long time, watching the struggle. People called to him, but he waved them off. At one point, Clari told him she was going home and not to stay out to late. Nate nodded, not really listening to her.

As the sun started to bleed from the wounds oh-so-generously applied by the clouds, Nate felt himself slipping away. Then, the monster came out to play.

Nate stared at the read streaks glinting through the sky and thought of how delicious it would be to see those streaks streaming through the emerald green grass of the park. He had someone in mind. He knew who would make the most impact. Oh, yes, Nate Soakreed knew. Nate slipped his hand into his pocket. A crumpled piece of paper, wrinkled with age and wear, greeted his fingers with a sharp edged paper cut. Nate cried out and jerked his fingers to his mouth.

The sound of Nate's pain sounded hollow, like a habit. That's when Nate knew. He was no longer himself. Nate was gone. The monster that came out to play wanted more than to play. The monster wanted to live, and he wanted to live as Nate Soakreed.

Nate stood up and brushed his shorts off. He didn't care about the dirt sticking to his legs. That was one thing about Nate that Clari hated. Nate would clean his clothes but had to be forced to shower. The dirt seemed to make him feel masked and comfortable. As Nate took one last glance at the dying sun, mortally wounded by the clouds but recovering to rise again on the morrow, Nate Soakreed spoke of his plans aloud. No one heard him.

Or so he thought.
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French gasped in horror, then slapped a hand over her mouth. He couldn't hear her, not after what she knew now. French turned to run, to go home and tell Frenchie, but she turned and tripped on a rock. Her body landed with a thud and she made a terrified squeak come out of her mouth. Nate turned his head sharply toward French, and she got up. She started to run, slapping her feet onto the hard cement path, but Nate was faster.

Nate was faster.

French's feet pounded the pavement, her panic rising in her chest. Her breath came in ragged gasps. Her adrenaline shrieked through her veins with a desperately feral call. She heard his heavily thudding feet racing up behind her. French would've screamed, she would have cried out, but her breathed whistled out of her throat, with no possibility of creating sound.

French was thrown to the ground, scraping up her arms, her knees, and her cheeks. Her blood ran down her face. French twisted frantically, trying to scream, but the breath was knocked out of her body. She struggled violently. "Shh, shh, shh, it's okay. Only a few hours longer..." Nate clamped his hand firmly over her mouth. French tried struggling, but the sheer fatigue of her sprint for her life, the pain of the scrapes on her sensitive skin, and Nate's strength tired her and her struggles stopped. She pleaded to Nate with her terror filled eyes.
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(WARNING!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! HUGELY GRAPHIC SCENE COMING UP! If someone would have a problem with you reading this, don't. Don't get me in trouble.)
Nate felt a rush of hungry satisfaction when he saw the blood streaming down her pitifully scraped up cheeks. She was crying blood, and Nate knew he could not go back. Not now. Nate clamped a hand over her mouth, so when she regained her breath, she wouldn't scream. Her breath dampened his hand, but he would clean up later.

Her bloody tears were smeared all over her face, which was flushed from exertion, and her eyes seemed to beg him for mercy. Nate smiled, baring his teeth in a vicious and feral gesture. French's eyes widened and she tried to scream. Nate's hand muffled the sound enough to see that it did not get past his own ears. His oxytitious precautions would serve him well, only if he was intelligent enough to use them.

"Shh, shh, it's okay. Only a few hours longer..." Nate soothed solicitously, although French began to struggle weakly once more. Nate picked her up like a baby. "Shh, shh, just a few more hours." He purred. French tried to hit him. Nate hit her on the base of the skull. Before she could cry out in pain or surprise, French slumped unconscious. Nate's arms shook with the increased effort he exerted holding her up. He started to walk. He hoped he didn't drop her. That would be messy. Very, very messy.
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French spiraled away from the world and she fell. The air rushing past her body was cool and comfortable. She wasn't bleeding anymore, nor did she hurt or feel exhausted. It was almost as if her vigor was renewed, but she was falling. Suddenly, her feet came to a feather-light rest on the ground, like a leaf swaying its way to the ground from a tree.

The world she stepped into was soft and hazy, with no straight or sharp edges. She was in what looked like an ordinary living room, with two faux-leather couches and a very brown bookcase piled neatly with books. She looked around her. The absence of a door to the room struck her as odd.She glanced upward. The ceiling yawned away to darkness. If there was no door, maybe she would have to fly out. After all, she had fallen into this room.

"French." The voice reverberated throughout the room. It seemed to come from everywhere. French looked around, trying to pinpoint the source, but it was useless. "French, French, French..." It chanted, on and on. French's face got cold, and very wet. She tried to rub her eyes, but her hands were lumps of lead, dead at her sides. She couldn't move, and the room faded away, the hazy lines becoming blackness. French was knocked down to her back, and her pain crept back.

"French." The voice was Nate's, trying to rouse her. He had apparently stuck her face in the stream that slithered through the park with glassy sapphire water. French opened her eyes and was blinded by the stark white full moon. As her vision came back, the moon faded to a silvery glow, hostile and aloof.

Nate stepped into her vision, blocking out the stars. His left hand seemed too long, too sharp, and too...one fingered? French's heart pounded. What was he going to do to her?
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Nate saw her eyes flash and knew she was awake. Her bloody tears had long since dried, and the residue washed from her face when he put her in the brook to wake her up. He clutched the handle of the kitchen knife he had taken and hidden here. There was something special about this spot.

It was a small clearing between the trees and bushes, backed by the creek. In times past, Nate had come here to kill small things, watching their small lives washed away by the water. He loved the way their blood had felt, rushing through his hands, warmer than the knife he had hidden to kill them. The handle was always warm. He held it while the animals struggled, then slashed their necks and watched the blood well up and stain the animal's feathers or fur until the light faded from their eyes and they moved no more. Then, Nate dumped their bodies in the brook for the fish to dispose of. Nate liked it that way. He never got caught, not even when the bones washed up on the shore weeks later. Oh, yes, Nate liked it that way.

But now he wanted bigger prey.

Nate knelt by French's side, making soothing sounds. "French, it'll be okay. Just a few more minutes, and you will hurt no more." French quaked when he reached a hand out to touch a scrape on her cheek. She bit her lip, and her face betrayed her torture. "Wh-what's in your hand?" Her voice had taken on a high note, and her terror shone in her eyes like a second moon. "Shh, shh, it will help you. Do you have anything you want to say?" Nate brushed his fingers over the scrapes on her arm, trailing them lightly over the raw skin.

"What are you going to do to me?" She asked in a terrified whisper. Nate smiled sadly, shadowing parts of his face. Nate stroked her scraped up cheek again. "I am going to help you. Just a few more minutes, and it will all be over. It will all be gone." Nate promised. He told her to stay where she was, but, in all honesty, she wasn't going anywhere. She would never go anywhere again.

Nate retrieved the rope and a long strip of cloth he had hidden beforehand in the bushes. The small sheathe he kept his knife in, crudely improvised using an old shirt, was stiff and black. Did that normally happen to white shirts you keep murder knives in? Nate wasn't sure.

When he returned to his prey, French had sat up and drawn her knees to her chest. Nate pointedly ignored her whimpers.

"French, can I see your hands please?" Nate asked flatly. "No." She whined. Her voice betrayed the tears her eyes hid. Nate cursed under his breath. "French." He demanded louder. "I need to see your hands." French's muscles tensed. Well, this is perfect, Nate thought.

Nate got down on his knees beside her. "French." He whispered. "Your hands." French didn't respond. Nate gently rested his knife on the ground and grabbed her wrists. French strained to pull her hands back, but Nate held them firmly and quickly bound her hands together. He let go of her arms and she pulled them to her, quaking and crying. Nate shook his head.

Her feet were easier to restrain. He bound together her ankles with a quick box knot and stepped back. The long strip of cloth still dangled from his hands. French looked pitiful and powerless. Nate almost cried out in a feral growl, and the rush of dominance plagued his stance.

"French." His voice took on a growling note. "Look at the river." French kept her eyes on her knees. Nate shook his head. "That was your decision." He crawled behind her and tied the strip of cloth around her head and through her mouth. Nate sensed that French was numb to terror. She would fight no more.

"Shh, shh, shh. It's okay, French. Just a few more seconds, and it will all be over. All over." Nate drew the last two words out, adding vibrato and a decrescendo to his tone. French stopped shaking. "Where's Andrew?" She asked. "Justin, where is Andrew?" Her voice was very small, and she seemed to have the aura of a child in her words. Some of that was probably the gag.

Nate shook his head. "Andrew is waiting for you. I will take you to Andrew." He promised. "Just close your eyes. It'll be all right. Just close your-" Nate picked up the knife and shoved the point through French's stomach.

Her skin gave away like paper, tearing with a wet ripping sound. Her muscle tore silently and her blood welled out in rivers. French's blood cascaded over his hands, warm and beautiful. French gave a choked gasp and tears ran down her face. Nate jerked the knife through her stomach, cutting in completely open. Her guts spilled out, all over Nate. Nate relished the heat of her agony.

Nate jumped back. He took his knife, black, like his soul, and slashed open the skin on her legs. More blood, a delicious amount of lukewarm life spilling all over him. He shivered with excitement and the world went silent. Nate heard his own heartbeat, fluttering like a feather caught in a fan, and nothing else. French's mouth was open and her body was convulsing. Nate lashed out with his knife, cutting open her arms. More blood, more beautiful blood came pouring out of her skin and drenching Nate in a red coat of psychotic ecstasy.

Her convulses got weaker and Nate knew it was time. He lunged for her throat. His bestial urges guided him, not his knife. Nate ripped out her throat with his teeth. The warm metal filling his mouth was delicious, so filling, yet so hungry. Nate knew he howled in a wolf like cry of victory. French stopped moving. Nate just immersed himself in her blood, sweet and red. His rush of insane happiness buzzing on his high, Nate unceremoniously hauled her body and dumped it into the tributary. Still shivering from his sociopathic high, Nate sheathed his knife in the old shirt. He had some cleaning up to do.

Nate licked French's blood off his lips.

FOR EVERYONE THAT SKIPPED THAT
Nate killed French, and then dumped her body in the river.